May 31: Sleep Well, Lipps Inc., Bigfoot Poet

The boy talks about great fishermen with Santiago . . . 

"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the big leagues when he was my age."

"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening."

"I know. You told me."

"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"

"Baseball I think," the boy said. "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw." He said Jota for J.

"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days. But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking. His mind was on horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone."

"He was a great manager," the boy said. "My father thinks he was the greatest."

"Because he came here the most times," the old man said. "If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager."

"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"

"I think they are equal."

"And the best fisherman is you."

"No. I know others better."

"Qué va," the boy said. "There are many good fishermen and some great ones. But there is only you."

"Thank you. You make me happy. I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong."

"There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say."

"I may not be as strong as I think," the old man said. "But I know many tricks and I have resolution."

"You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning. I will take the things back to the Terrace."

"Good night then. I will wake you in the morning."

"You're my alarm clock," the boy said.

"Age is my alarm clock," the old man said. "Why do old men wake so early? Is it to have one longer day?"

"I don't know," the boy said. "All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard."

"I can remember it," the old man said. "I'll waken you in time."

"I do not like for him to waken me. It is as though I were inferior."

"I know."

"Sleep well, old man."

The boy went out. They had eaten with no light on the table and the old man took off his trousers and went to bed in the dark. He rolled his trousers up to make a pillow, putting the newspaper inside them. He rolled himself in the blanket and slept on the other old newspapers that covered the springs of the bed.

Santiago doesn't feel comfortable with the boy's praise.  He accepts the compliment, but he knows that he's only as good as the next fish he catches.  Resting on your past is like Lipps Inc. going on Jimmy Fallon to sing "Funkytown."  Again.  And again.  And Again.

As a poet, I know the danger of always pulling out the poems people expect you to read.  When I first started publishing, my one-hit wonder was a poem about a dead squirrel.  Everyone knew me for it.  And I read it.  A lot.  Even though I had written much better stuff.  The squirrel poem was eventually replaced by another audience favorite.  A poem about about the ugliest fish in North America.  And, eventually that one was replaced.  It might have been the one about my grandfather and Robert Frost.  Or the one about my sister who, at the time, was suffering with a serious illness.  I read a poem titled "Orange Day" about my son so much, people started referring to him as my orange child.

Nowadays, it's Bigfoot all the way.  If I do a poetry reading without including a Bigfoot poem or two, I feel like I've let the audience down.  At my last public reading, I read a ton of new, non-Bigfoot poems.  Really good stuff, in my estimation.  But, it was only when I dragged Bigfoot out of the poetic forest that I saw everyone in the room smile.  Literally everyone.  Bigfoot is my "Funkytown."

And I don't mind right now that I'm known as the Bigfoot poet.  It could be worse.  I could known for writing serial killer poems.  Or poems from the mind of Marjorie Taylor Greene (what little of it she has).  Eventually, I WILL move on to another obsession.  After I get my Bigfoot manuscript out in the world.

For now, however, Bigfoot is always looking over my shoulder.  He's my muse.  I call on him when I need strength or courage.  And he opens doors for me, to spoken-word albums and documentary films and podcasts.  Plus, Bigfoot makes me cool with my 13-year-old son.  A difficult feat.

So, at this time, Saint Marty sleeps well knowing Bigfoot is watching over him.

October 16: Sleep Well, Human-Made Disasters, Suffering

The blind innkeeper said that the Americans could sleep in his stable that night, and he gave them soup and ersatz coffee and a little beer.  Then he came out to the stable to listen to them bedding down in the straw.

"Good night, Americans," he said in German.  "Sleep well."

It is a quiet moment at the end of an apocalypse of fire.  Dresden has been reduced to ash and rubble, most of its residents to unrecognizable char.  The blind German innkeeper could have refused to house the American prisoners, or made them sleep outside to breathe in the smell of flames and flesh.  He doesn't.  Instead, he gives them a roof, straw to sleep on, food and drink.  And he almost tucks them into sleep with his words, like a loving grandparent.

I think that horrible events--like the bombings or Dresden or Hiroshima, the 9-11 attacks--dissolve the differences that exist between survivors.  It doesn't matter whether you're German or American or Jewish or Muslim or Pakistani, in the dust and ruin, everyone simply becomes human.  Helping each other find missing fathers or daughters.  Handing out blankets and plates of chicken.  Hugging the grief-stricken.  Bandaging the wounded.

Yes, wars and bombings and terror attacks and mass shootings are all human-made disasters.  The aftermath, however, are usually human miracles of bravery, strength, compassion, and love.  It's sad that it takes moments like that to bring out the best in people.  (Sometimes the worst, as well.) 

This may sound crazy, but I think the world would be a much better place if we all kept the idea of human suffering in our hearts.  If we did that, recalled times of great national and international sorrow every day, we might treat each other more kindly.  Might go out of the way to help human beings in need.  Refugees.  Immigrants.  Women.  Children.  Gay.  Transgender.  Black.  Hispanic.  Jewish.  Muslim. 

Because, tomorrow, we may be the immigrants and refugees from our own lives. 

Saint Marty is thankful today for soup and ersatz coffee and a little beer.

October 23: Take Care of Business, Pumpkins, Mary Oliver, "The Way of the World"

". . . Just remember, if you don't take care of business, no one else will.  Do you really think God gives a shit?"

After the death of his son, Ives is confronted by several men who urge him to hire somebody to kill his son's murderer.  It's a frightening scene, with Ives half-drunk surrounded by angry thugs and small-time gangsters.  And they want blood.  God isn't a part of their equation.  God, as one of them so eloquently put it, doesn't really give a shit.

I can't buy into that line of thinking.  Sure, I think we're expected to work hard in our lives.  God rewards hard workers.  Of course, I sometimes wonder over the success of some people.  I'm only human.  I get jealous and angry when I struggle financially or professionally while others seem to coast.  I can't remember the last time that I felt content with my life.  It's hard to feel content when I can't even scrape up the money to buy a couple of pumpkins for my kids for Halloween.

I have friends who are tenured professors.  I have friends who are lawyers and doctors, priests and pastors.  Yet, I don't think many of these friends really think of themselves as lucky.  It's a very human thing to focus on what you lack versus what you have.  I do it all the time.

Tonight, I received some good news.  Earlier this week, I thought I was only going to be teaching one class in the winter semester, which would have meant a loss of about $3000 of income.  A disaster.  Tonight, I found out that I have been assigned another class.  A class I love to teach at a time that is very good for my schedule.

God gives a shit.  I am living proof this evening.  Tomorrow, I will probably still be worrying about pumpkins and the brakes on my car.  But, tonight, I know that God is watching out for me.  And that will help me sleep well.

I know you're all expecting a fairy tale and a new Stickman this evening.  It is Friday.  However, it's late, and I'm tired.  It has been a pretty exhausting week.  I promise to write a fairy tale next Friday and the return of Stickman.  Sometimes, I simply have to cut myself some slack.

This evening, Saint Marty knows the way of the world, and it is full of unexpected grace.

The Way of the World

by:  Mary Oliver

The chickens ate all the crickets.
The foxes ate all the chickens.

This morning a friend hauled his
boat to shore and gave me the most
wondrous fish.  In its silver scales
it seemed dressed for a wedding.
The gills were pulsing, just above
where shoulders would be, if it had
had shoulders.  The eyes were still
looking around.  I don't know what
they were thinking.

The chickens ate all the crickets.
The foxes ate all the chickens.

I ate the fish.

Stickman couldn't have said it better